


And We'll Sail Around The World

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-04
Updated: 2008-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:32:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon needs a wingman on a coffee run. Ryan's haircut won't allow him to venture out into the rain, Jon's too stoned to play back-up, and every umbrella on the bus has mysteriously been destroyed, but Spencer's offering, and Brendon isn't stupid enough to look a Gift Spencer in the mouth, unless Spencer's specifically offering <i>that.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	And We'll Sail Around The World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsetmog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetmog/gifts).



Ryan is a baby about the weather.

"It's not raining that hard," Brendon promises. "And the Starbucks isn't that far away. We can sneak out while Zack's stocking up on skittles before we leave, and it will be totally be like an adventure."

"No," Ryan says decisively, putting his sunglasses on and leaning back further into the squashy orange velvet of the bus couch. Brendon loves their bus. It basically just needs shag carpeting and a bead curtain to be entirely perfect. "This cut looks like shit when it gets wet. It curls, dude. Also, I have stuff to do."

"Jon," Brendon says, abandoning Ryan the vile betrayer and turning his piteous gaze upon his last hope. "Jon, you'll come with me, won't you? The coffee, the sugar, it calls to me, like a siren. It calls to my soul. You get that."

Jon nods very slowly. "I do get that." He nods again. "I feel you, Brendon."

Brendon is forced to recognize that his last hope is totally too blazed to hustle successfully into shoes and off the bus in a daring guerrilla raid, and Zack probably wouldn't consider him proper back-up, in that state, and Brendon would just get yelled at worse. His life is hard and unfair, and he lets his shoulders droop a little with the weight of his crushed hopes.

"I'll come with you," Spencer offers from behind him, and Brendon startles, partly because Spencer is stealthy like a ninja, and partly because he really didn't think it was even worth asking him to stir outside the bus when it's raining so hard that they're delaying hitting the road until it clears. Spencer straightens his hair. Spencer does not like being wet. Spencer generally does not like being at the beck and call of Brendon's frequent sugar and/or caffeine and/or salty cravings.

"Yeah?" he asks, and then wants to kick himself, because who looks a gift Spencer in the mouth?

"Yeah," Spencer says. "It's not far. Is there an umbrella anywhere on this entire bus?"

Jon starts to giggle, and Ryan's mouth goes quivery with amusement even while his voice is flat and serious. "Well, not anymore." He draws the last word out, _any mooooooore_. "They're bad luck, Spence. Very, very bad luck. Bad karma. We saved you all. It was a selfless action."

"There is no umbrella," Jon puts in. "It was just an illusion of the Matrix."

"Jesus motherfucking Christ," Spencer says.

-

Outside, the rain beats down in sheets of dense greyness.

"I'm sorry." Brendon says earnestly. "I really thought that it was like, two blocks."

There is water slicking Spencer's long hair to the shape of his skull and the curve of his neck and turning it dark. There is water in his beard, catching in bright glistening drops; the beard looks like it doesn't know whether to bristle or to droop pathetically. Brendon is fairly sure that the beard is semi-autonomous.

Spencer sighs. "You're buying my coffee," he says, and then darts a suspicious look around the Starbucks. "People are staring at us, Brendon. This is why we need a Zack. If we get pestered, I'm blaming you so hard."

"Well, yeah," Brendon agrees cheerfully, sauntering along to the counter. "It could be our handsome and famous, famous faces. Equally, it could be the fact that we're wearing sunglasses inside while the heavens are pouring down outside."

Spencer pauses, in mid-perusal of the menu. Brendon can't see his eyes, shuttered by thick black plastic, but he's sure they contain appropriate appreciation of Brendon's perspicacity. "Huh."

"Don't worry about it," Brendon says brightly. "We're rockstars. It's what we do. We have full rock godly dispensation for all inappropriate sporting of sunglasses." He pats his own awesome, oversized, quasi-neon asshole sunglasses appreciatively. "Perks of the job."

-

They get frappuccinos ("Cold drinks?" Spencer asks incredulously. "Seriously, you're wet through and you want cold coffee?" "Yes," Brendon says, patient. "It is what my soul is craving. Also, it's stopped raining now, man up.") and walk back to the bus in the thin pale sunlight, stepping carefully around the puddles and over the still-flowing stormwater in the gutters. The pools of water everywhere look grey at a distance, reflecting back the sky, and black when Brendon's walking right by them.

"Thanks for coming with me, dude," he says, touching Spencer's arm. The fabric of his shirt is still wet, but warm and slightly steamy from the heat of his body.

Spencer smiles. "No problem."

"I mean it," Brendon says, stirring his straw around in his frappuccino through the bubble lid and staring at his shoes. "Thank you."

Spencer looks over at him, and his mouth maybe twitches under the beard. Brendon can't really tell. The beard is confusing. The big plastic sunglasses don't really help, either. "You're welcome," Spencer says, and his eyes shift, teeth caught between his bottom lip like he's about to say something more. "Fuck it," he says, and then suddenly Spencer leans down and in close.

Brendon's completely confused for a half second - has Spencer developed bird of prey swooping skills? Is this an oncoming headbutt? - and then even more confused when Spencer's mouth touches his, warm and dry, just for a second. It's so fast, and he's so surprised, that he doesn't close his eyes, or pull away (or kiss back, or ask 'what the hell are you doing, dude?') or even think about doing any of those things, because by the time he's registered the fact that Spencer is touching him _with his lips_ , the lips are gone.

He touches his mouth with his free hand once Spencer pulls away, blinking quickly into the thin sunlight. His mouth is all weird and buzzy with the sense memory of Spencer's mouth and the ticklescrape of his beard. "What," he says. "What. Uh. Spencer."

Spencer glances at him, and then back at the ground. "What?"

"You kissed me."

"Yeah." Spencer drums the tips of his fingers against his cup, thin faint plinking sounds against the plastic. It sounds like a distant drumroll. "I kind of wanted to, just then. It was a thing. If you freak out on me, I will punch you in the neck, so help me."

"I wasn't going to freak out," Brendon says, injured. "I'm cool. I'm ice cool. I can take anything anyone throws at me without even blinking, that's how cool I am. Everybody underestimates me."

"Well," Spencer says. He takes another sip of his dulce du leche frappuccino. "Good. Glad to hear it."

"You're still underestimating me," Brendon accuses. "I can see it in your face. I can hear it in your brainwaves, Spencer Smith. Make them stop. They are wrong. Wrong and disinformed. _Uninformed_ , even."

"You don't hear brainwaves," Spencer says. "I think you're just supposed to sense their psychic charge. Also, you're all babbly and over-compensating, which might, just throwing it out there, be undercutting your claims to ice-coolness."

Brendon knocks Spencer's shoulder with his own. "I am cooler than cucumbers. I am cooler than Dr. Freeze. I am cooler than –" His free hand opens and closes ineffectually, and the frappuccino in his other hand cuts zig-zags through the air. "I am cooler than many things."

Spencer takes another, sceptical sip of his iced coffee, chin tilted in a way that Brendon knows expresses cruel doubt and unflattering disbelief, so Brendon feels compelled to seize Spencer by the shoulder and lean across and kiss him squarely on the mouth. It is the only logical course of action.

Contrary to Brendon's expectations, Spencer neither moves away or forward, just stands there tractably with his mouth shut and lets Brendon make his point. When Brendon's big sunglasses with their bright neon arms clack against Spencer's dark Ray-Bans, though, Spencer laughs, a little humming vibration Brendon can feel against his breastbone, a fleeting opportunity of open smile-shaped mouth that can and should be taken advantage of.

Spencer's mouth is cool and sweet from the crushed ice, the cream and caramel and coffee, much colder than Brendon expected it to be. Dead people probably have really cold tongues, too. Mermaids, too, probably, although he guesses that they're mammals. Semi-amphibious mammals, though. Spencer isn't dead or fishy, is breathing hot against his chin, and when Brendon tilts his head and slides his tongue into his mouth, Spencer makes a little noise halfway between a purr and a moan, and something weird happens to Brendon's stomach. He fists his free hand in the fabric of Spencer's shirt while Spencer kisses him back, hard and emphatic enough that Brendon has to tilt his head back a little from the downward force of it. His sunglasses are being pushed up high on the bridge of his nose, pressing against bone and against the ridges of his eyesockets in a way that's almost painful. Kissing someone taller than him is trippy.

The beard rasps against his chin and makes the thin skin of his lips burn with friction. Spencer is, huh. A really good kisser. He slides his other arm around Spencer's waist so it's not hanging weird and useless at his side anymore, his frappuccino cradled against the small of Spencer's back; he can feel the cool press of Spencer's own drink against his own shoulderblades when Spencer pulls him in closer, flush up against him.

"We really need to ditch these," Brendon says when he can stop (when he can breathe). "They're a pain in my ass right now. Also, I think mine's gone all melted and liquidious. I hate that. They need to be at least half solid, or I'm just not on board. Also," he adds, "how cool am I? I'm totally chillaxed. Can I get a takeback?"

Spencer's still wearing the stupid dark sunglasses that don't let Brendon see his eyes, but his hand tightens on the plastic cup he's holding. "Yeah, I guess. Point proved."

"I think you still doubt me," Brendon says, shaking his drink and eyeing it with jaundice. "I think maybe you need to let me prove my point again."

He can see Spencer's throat move when he swallows, but can't make out any change in his expression. "Yeah?"

Brendon nods seriously. "It might take a couple of solid hours of scientific demonstration to change your mind," he suggests. "And you're naturally kind of sceptical, so I might need to repeat the demonstration at intervals." Pause. "I could be pretty wrong about that, though. Maybe you're plenty convinced."

"Sometimes," Spencer says slowly, "sometimes I really start to worry when you start making sense to me. It's never a good sign, because your brain is not as other peoples' brains."

"That is not an answer," Brendon says. "Can I walk you back to the bus and then kiss you some more, yes or no?"

Spencer tilts the sunglasses down a little and levels a long blue stare at Brendon over their frames. "Yes," he says finally, when Brendon has actually started to worry a little bit. "Yeah, you can do that."


End file.
